Trans-Siberian Express (9 page)

In the meantime, he had, somehow, to get through the next four days on the train. Due to his affliction, it was impossible for him to sit or lie in one place for more than ten minutes at a time. How many roommates had he lost because of this agonizing restlessness? People were always moving out, complaining bitterly about “Crazy Godorov” with ants in his pants, the stupid fellow who simply could not stay still.

He had deliberately chosen the soft class, despite the expense, so that he would only have to share the compartment with one person, rather than with three others in hard class. There was also the off chance that the other bunk might remain empty. It hadn’t, and he found himself rooming with a middle-aged sports enthusiast who had instantly changed into a gym outfit and begun an interminable series of complicated exercises.

“Good for the circulation,” he would mumble, after each series. Godorov ignored him.

He had been tempted to ask the train attendant if he could be transferred, noting that the florid-faced man who smoked a big cigar had a whole compartment to himself. Probably bribed someone, he thought enviously. He himself had spent his last ruble to buy his round-trip ticket.

He had pored over timetables for weeks, allowing the plan to form slowly in his mind. It was a special joy to go over it again and again. At Krasnoyarsk he would slip off the train and in the seventeen-minute stopover, he would perform. That was exactly the way he saw it in his mind, a performance: he and Shmiot. He allowed himself the special luxury of contemplating a wide variety of acts, even though he knew that he would not make rigid plans, but would play it exactly as it came to him in the final seconds. Over and over again, for the past thirty years, he had imagined how it would be done, in all its delicious varieties. The important thing would be to get the man on his stomach so that he could somehow dig his heel into the lower spine, feeling the bones give, hearing the sweet crunching sound as the vertebrae were crushed, while he watched the eyes bugging out in pain, as his own had done. Such a vision had sustained him over the years and surely could sustain him four days more.

GENERAL
Maxim Sergeyevich Grivetsky lay on the bottom bunk of his compartment puffing angrily on his cigar. He could not afford such carelessness on this mission. He knew that he had had too much to drink and was quite annoyed with himself for letting it happen. But it had been the only way to quiet his excitement. He had been agitated over the inefficiency and stupidity of the attendants in the dining car. He simply could not abide the arrogance of underlings, a quality that had enhanced his reputation as a cruel general. This reputation angered him, because deep inside he believed that he was a gentle man. Anyone who questioned his behavior obviously had no understanding of the responsibilities of command.

It was a general’s task to reach an objective by whatever means necessary; to hold that objective until it came under civilian control, and then to engineer an orderly withdrawal. It was truly a science. Men and equipment were simply the raw materials of the equation, the x’s and y’s of the elaborate formulas of defense and attack. Emotion, anger or compassion had no place.

It was precisely this emotional discipline that gave Grivetsky a special edge over his fellow officers. It had propelled him up the ladder, until finally he had won the complete confidence of the General Secretary. Dimitrov would have trusted no one else with this crucial, most dangerous assignment. Grivetsky was proud of the fact that he had reached this position without the usual intriguing or ass-kissing. He was, first and foremost, a military scientist, with special expertise in the field of nuclear armaments. This specialty immunized him from political considerations. Politics was for them—not for him. He paid little attention to ideology. Marx and Lenin were simply names on the lips of party flunkies. He was concerned only with competence, with developing a nuclear strategy that would function under all foreseeable circumstances. Grivetsky did not deal in issues and decision-making. He did not choose objectives, he reached them. Grivetsky followed orders.

“We must teach them a lesson,” Dimitrov had said, grinding a stubby forefinger into the area of the map designated the People’s Republic of China. The map denoted all the Russian missile batteries, some poised to knock out every confirmed and suspected missile battery that the Chinese had erected, while others pointed directly into the heart of every major Chinese city.

“We cannot count on knocking out every Chinese battery in a first strike. There is every likelihood that they could get off a few retaliatory missiles,” Grivetsky told him, “mostly from their Manchurian sites.”

“How many?”

“Maybe five. Maybe six.”

“And a year from now?”

“Possibly double that number as their range increases. They are moving quickly.” Grivetsky watched Dimitrov concentrating on the map. “At the moment they could very probably destroy the Trans-Baikal area, Irkutsk, Ulan-Ude, Chita and, of course, Vladivostok and Nakhodka. I can more or less guarantee that European Russia will be safe. But I’m afraid that parts of Asian Siberia would be in very bad shape indeed.”

Dimitrov’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head.

“Our poor Siberian orphan,” he said. “She has been raped so many times, what is one more sacrifice?” He sighed. “If only those Chinks would be reasonable. If only Stalin had been a little more considerate of Mao’s feelings, all might have been different.”

He remained silent for a long time, then shook himself awake. “Nonsense. It was inevitable from the beginning. There is simply no room for the two of us. Without hegemony our leadership will disintegrate in time.” He opened one hand and began to tick off a list of treaties.

“The Americans want us to compromise. They can’t understand that the Chinks will never settle with us unless they are forced to do so. They cannot swallow what we have done to them for a hundred years. The Treaty of Aigun, in 1858, giving us the territory north of the Amur and west of the Sungari.” As he ticked off each treaty, he pointed to the territory on the map. “The Treaty of Peking, by which we acquired the lands east of the Sungari and Ussuri; the Tehcheng Protocol, where we claimed additional areas in western China; and the Treaty of Ili, where we picked up this land in Sinkiang. Now they want all that back and, to boot, Outer Mongolia.” Dimitrov had grown agitated, jabbing his finger into the map, his temper rising. “And here, and here, and here—five and a half million kilometers. And, of course, there can be no dealing with them. No compromise will suit them until we’ve handed over all the lands east of Lake Baikal, including Vladivostok, Khabarovsk and Kamchatka.”

Grivetsky had listened in silence to this lesson in political geography. It was not his domain. What did it matter? All these claims and counterclaims. They only confused the real issue, the true objective, which was the neutralization of the Chinese nuclear capability.

“This is our last chance to get away so cheap,” Dimitrov had said, his energy increasing as his argument warmed. He seemed to be pleading, asking for understanding of his motives. But Grivetsky’s mind was wandering. What would happen if the Americans responded with an aggressive strike of their own? That, of course, was the major risk. His mind raced over the compendium of options that had been worked out by his military planners. An American response would be a holocaust, a no-win draw, with no one left to crawl out of the ruins.

“Don’t worry about the Americans,” Dimitrov had said, as if reading his mind. “It will all be a
fait accompli
. We will, of course, have to answer to them. They will accuse us of duplicity. Oh, they will beat their breasts and vilify us. But, in the end, they will only bluster.”

Grivetsky watched as Dimitrov’s energy waned, his face grew pele, his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. He spoke more slowly, more deliberately.

“You will be given total command of the entire Sino-Soviet front, Maxim Sergeyevich. You will proceed to Red Banner Headquarters in Chita under the guise of a routine inspection. Once you are on the spot, I will give the order.”

Dimitrov watched his reactions. “You think I am throwing you to the wolves, Maxim Sergeyevich?”

“There is Bulgakov,” Grivetsky had stammered. An image of the strong, broad face of the Marshall floated into his mind.

“Bulgakov will bend. The Politburo will bend. We must give them no time to intrigue, no time to second-guess.” Dimitrov paused. “I have your trust?”

“Without question, Comrade.”

“Good.”

Little more explanation was needed, Grivetsky thought. He had no illusions about the dangers of his position, which he assessed with his usual coolness.

Dimitrov’s time frame, Grivetsky reasoned, had been compressed by his own illness, which was quite obviously serious. He had been forced to move his timetable forward by months, perhaps years. Dimitrov’s mysterious affliction was causing ripples of confusion and uncertainty. The various bureaucratic factions that intrigued around the seat of power were nervous. They could no longer predict their own futures and they were totally unprepared for change. The major issue was: Was Dimitrov dying? If so, how long did he have to live?

Grivetsky could imagine the whispers going on behind the scenes, the furtive conferences and social calls outside official orbits. He could imagine, too, the activities of the intelligence service. It was as if the whole world was waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Dimitrov surely knew it.

For Grivetsky himself, every question suggested another, revealing still more questions to be studied. Suppose Dimitrov died before Grivetsky’s mission was accomplished? Suppose opposing factions within the KGB discovered Dimitrov’s plan? Suppose the Chinese got wind of it? Suppose this entire plan was the dream of a madman, of a paranoid on the brink of death, of a desperate megalomaniac who wished to leave his mark on the world? Suppose? But it was not Grivetsky’s job to suppose. Above anything else, Grivetsky knew that Dimitrov was correct in at least one assumption. He had chosen the right man in Grivetsky.

Sitting now in the privacy and comfort of his compartment, he felt his fingers burn with the heat of the dwindling nub of his cigar. He smashed it out quickly in the ashtray and looked at his watch. It was past eleven. The dining car would be closed now and his mind was too agitated for sleep. Standing up, he brushed back his ruffled hair and surveyed his image in the black window of the train. He needed a shave.

Before he had left Dimitrov’s dacha, the Secretary had assured him that their meeting would be confidential. The general’s visit would not be considered unusual, since Dimitrov was accustomed to ask Grivetsky for periodical briefings and the Supreme Commander, Marshall Bulgakov, welcomed the opportunity for his protégé. After all, they were all comrades, dependent on each other’s trust and good will. And Grivetsky, in Bulgakov’s mind, could never—would never—be disloyal. Hadn’t he been godfather to Bulgakov’s second child? And Dimitrov himself had been godfather to the Marshall’s firstborn.

Grivetsky had not been back in his Moscow office thirty seconds before the phone rang. Of course it was Bulgakov. So they were watching him, he thought. Bulgakov requested that the general come to his office.

“So tell me, Maxim Sergeyevich,” the Marshall said, after the door had been closed behind Grivetsky. “How does he look?”

“Better,” Grivetsky had replied.

“Better than last time?” They had been together a month before for a working luncheon at the dacha.

“He is better. But he tires,” Grivetsky had said, feeling Bulgakov’s big brown eyes probing him. “He is definitely not a well man.”

“Did he tell you what’s wrong?”

“A flu, I suppose.”

“But did he tell you that himself?”

“No.” Grivetsky paused. “I thought I shouldn’t ask. That would be indelicate.”

“You don’t think he was acting strangely?”

Grivetsky felt the pressure of the inquiry. I must not appear suspicious, he told himself.

“Perhaps a bit more guarded,” Grivetsky said. “The security surrounding him was more intense than usual, but he seemed cheerful.”

“Did he ask you anything specific?” Bulgakov asked, betraying his own suspicions.

“No, just the usual. General questions about the dispositions.”

Bulgakov turned his eyes away and looked out of the window.

“They say he is dying,” Bulgakov said abruptly, without taking his eyes from the window. “He is alleged to have leukemia.”

“My God!”

“Did you see the American doctor at the dacha?”

“No.”

“He is an expert on blood diseases. Apparently the Secretary doesn’t trust Russian medical science.” He turned to face Grivetsky. “I can’t say that I blame him.”

“How do you know all this?” Grivetsky asked, wondering if he was being incautious.

“The vultures are picking at the carcass while it is still warm. They are starting to kiss my ass with ever-increasing zeal. The KGB bastards are planting the biggest kisses.”

“It may just be a ruse,” Grivetsky said. “From what I observed last night, I’d say the Secretary’s mind was quite intact.” He paused a moment, observing Bulgakov. They had come a long way together. “He mentioned something about wanting me to look over the Far Eastern situation. I assumed he meant personally. I’m sure he will talk to you about it.”

He watched Bulgakov’s face for any signs of hesitation. Instead, it was apparent that Bulgakov was thinking in a totally different direction.

“But, if he is as sick as they say, we must watch him carefully. A man at the end of his rope has little to lose.” Bulgakov seemed to be talking to himself. Then he lifted his tunic and brought out a silver flask from his rear pocket. “Brandy?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good to have you back, Maxim Sergeyevich,” Bulgakov said, taking a deep swallow from the flask.

Grivetsky took this as a signal that he had been dismissed.

When he heard nothing for a week, he became irritated. Maybe the man is dying, he thought. Finally, he was summoned to Bulgakov’s office. It was at the end of the day and the Marshall had already set up the nightly buffet of fish, caviar, vodka and brandy. He poured Grivetsky some vodka.